


The Tarpeian Rock

by fms_fangirl



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Other, Present Tense, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5119400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fms_fangirl/pseuds/fms_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William and Grell at the edge of their world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tarpeian Rock

**Author's Note:**

> The Tarpeian Rock was the site of execution in ancient Rome - a cliff on the Capitoline Hill from which criminals were flung to their deaths.
> 
> A word about pronouns - Although Grell identifies as female, this story is entirely William's POV - hence the use of the masculine.

It resembles an unfinished painting. In the distance, the great structure of the Grim Reapers’ Library can be seen, silhouetted against the sky. The Council Chambers, Administration buildings and even the office of the Dispatch itself can be picked out by a careful observer. Blocks of flats, an occasional cluster of trees or stretches of green grass are visible. But, as one moves away, the buildings – houses, shops and offices – become scarcer; the streets are no longer paved and, eventually, give way to centuries-old pathways, flattened in the scrub, until, finally, there is nothing but rocky wasteland, which fades into nothing, as if the artist had lost interest and left a vast space of white on an otherwise crowded canvas.

At the furthest edge, before the uninterrupted sea of greyish-white that stretches out as far as can be seen, there stands, like an odd punctuation mark, a steep granite staircase, leading to… nowhere.

It has been sixty years since it was last used. Sixty years since a rogue Shinigami was hauled, in shackles, up the thirteen steps to the jutting platform and hurled into nothingness.

Some of the bolder trainees claim that they have ventured to the edge and peered over. In the still of night, you can hear the cries of the damned, they say. William is sure they are lying. There is no day or night at the fringes of this world – just a hazy grey. Nor has he ever encountered someone else in his wanderings at the edge – except one.

It is almost impossible to judge space here. The tiny figure he spies in the distance might be miles away or quite close, but the mop of dark red hair is unmistakable. He is faintly surprised; Sutcliff hardly seems like the type for solitary walks, but his contact with the red-head has been minimal in their first weeks of training. If Sutcliff has noticed him, he gives no indication; does not wave or call to him, but continues to stride, perilously close to the edge.

He doesn’t know Grell, but he certainly knows _of_ Grell. He is already the talk of the class – his violent temper, recklessness and prowess in combat, not to mention a certain, definite oddness. He would rather not know Grell Sutcliff, he decides, and is relieved to be left alone.

The edge suits him; reminds him why he continues to exist. The others have already forgotten that this reality is a penance. Bemused by their new strength, deceived by the supposed normality of this world, they believe they have been granted a new life. A life to compensate for the disappointments and heartbreaks of their former existences. All William can feel is a deep, fierce anger that he failed. Failed as thoroughly at finding oblivion as he did at everything that preceded it: friendship, family and love.

Sometimes, when he sees his classmates, laughing on their way to the pub at the end of the day, he wonders how they will manage when confronted by an eternity of death. When he hears them speak excitedly of the model of Death Scythe they will choose, he takes a twisted pleasure imagining the first time they have to use it on a child. He takes no joy in the thought of a child’s death, but they have already been taught that human lives are frail and, for the most part, meaningless, except as souls to be collected. The others have yet to take that lesson to heart.

The next time William sees Grell at the fastness of the edge, he is uncomfortably acquainted with him. He supposes he is grateful for Grell’s quick actions during their final exam, but his behaviour towards him since is unwelcome and discomfiting. As a newly fledged reaper, his collections are proficient and conducted without incident. His tally of deaths and souls always match and his paperwork is meticulous and submitted scrupulously on time. There is already talk that he is to be groomed for promotion.

Sutcliff’s ledgers rarely balance. He is impulsive and thoughtless and takes too much pleasure in the spilling of blood to complete his jobs properly. His reports are careless and, usually, incomplete. Only his skill in combat and courage – or recklessness – in dangerous situations save him from demotion or termination. His hair is long enough now that William can see it blowing around him in the distance. He wears absurd red-framed spectacles, parades about in non-regulation attire and has taken to insisting that he is female.

As William rises through the ranks, he seldom has a chance to visit the edge, but, once or twice, across the endless horizon, he spots Grell when he does. Oddly enough, he does not believe that Grell follows him. He is convinced that he is aware of his presence, but, surprisingly, given Grell’s complete lack of discretion, he has never mentioned it.

Grell will never know how close he came to being the first Shinigami in over a century to be thrown from the steps. William is surprised at how vehemently he defended him to the Council after the Ripper murders. Perhaps, he feels the need to repay the debt from their final exam.

Grell’s hair is almost ankle-length. He still sports the scarlet coat he took from his murdered accomplice, but the fabric is worn and patched in many places. Sometimes, William wonders if he continues to wear it as an act of contrition, but he rarely sees him since his move to Senior Management. Word of his exploits still reach him regularly, making him shake his head. He could have been Supervisor, at the very least, by now, had he chosen to behave himself, especially after his brilliant record of collections during the wars that had rocked Europe. But he continues to defy Management at every turn, engage in unsavoury liaisons and trail scandal in his wake.

William has just returned from six months in the American branch, newly expanded to deal with the war in Asia and opens a portal to take him to the stairs, reflecting that the walk from his house to the edge has become a trifle tiring these days.

Grell could be seen with no trouble in the unsettling whiteness, but, for the first time, they meet face to face at the base of the stairs. In spite of the grey at his own temples, he is shocked to see threads of silver in Grell’s hair. Reapers age slowly. With no vanity, William knows he looks no older than a man in his early forties; his black suit and tie allow him to move without comment in the human world. He is, in fact, considered quite stylish and distinguished nowadays. But Grell has made no attempt. He still clings to his costume of sixty years ago; he must look absurd to the new trainees and younger reapers.

And, suddenly, he understands why Management enforces no harsher discipline than a temporary demotion or office chores in light of his escapades. The fiercely flamboyant and exuberant red reaper has become the office eccentric – humoured and pitiable; a figure of fun.

Grell smiles at him. “After all these years,” he says with a laugh, “you land at my feet.”

He can’t help it; he has to ask. “Why do you come here?”

“Why do you?”

Startled into honesty, he replies, “At first, to remind myself that I was no longer alive. Then for the solitude and silence. To escape from the office and the others.”

“Especially me,” he says with a grin. His eyes are surrounded by crow’s feet now, but they still glimmer with perverse humour.

He adjusts his spectacles and nods. “And you? Why?”

“To reassure myself that I still had a choice if I didn’t do better here.”

After a century and a half as a reaper, after overseeing the London Dispatch through two tremendous global conflicts, after over a hundred years of dealing with Grell, William likes to believe that he can no longer be surprised, but he is rendered temporarily speechless. “You believe you have done better here?” he finally manages to say.

“What do you think?”

What does he think? Grell has done _dreadfully_. From the start – his wildness, his temper, his disregard for the rules. His outrageous flouting of all decency. His mortifying demonstrations. The Jack the Ripper spree. His ridiculous infatuation with the demon butler. He has never been anything but an embarrassment and a disgrace.

Grell is smiling faintly, as if he can read his thoughts, and, for the first time in their long acquaintance, he forces himself to look directly into his eyes. He has never cared to learn of Grell’s human life, but scraps of information, inevitably, came his way. He knows that Grell lived with the spectre of imprisonment and the noose, knows what he suffered when he tried to conform and what he endured when he couldn’t. And behind the defiance, he can see, lurking in his expression, a certain triumph.

William recalls him, proudly showing off his new spectacles and custom-made cord. He remembers the night of the fires, when he restored his Death Scythe – Grell, whooping with glee, slashing with savage delight as his hair streamed about him. Shamelessly flirting with every man that appealed to him; flinging his arms around Undertaker in the middle of the Library. Grell, teasing and prancing with joy in a room full of new trainees. Refusing to be cowed, laughing scornfully at anyone who attempted to shame him or change him. And he realizes that Grell is the most honest, courageous individual he has ever known.

“You have done magnificently here.”

“Thank you, William,” he says, running his finger down his lapel in a well-remembered gesture – this time more affectionate than flirtatious.

He springs to the top of the stairs and stands poised on the edge.

“Grell! What are you doing?” he shouts.

He leaps. His hair flies wildly and his coat billows about him as he lands in a crouch at his feet. His cheeks are stained pink, his shark-like teeth gleam and his eyes glitter. For a moment, he is the unrepentant crimson reaper he remembers.

He jumps to his feet. “You see, William, some people wait to be pushed off. Others take the leap themselves.” He laughs wildly and disappears.

His mocking laugh echoes for a long time, but William is left alone, a tiny black speck on an endless grey horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Personally, I believe that Grell would continue to be _fabulous_ , no matter her age.


End file.
